


Chain of Command

by agent_florida



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gunplay, M/M, Non Consensual, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-06
Updated: 2010-05-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 19:04:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/625542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_florida/pseuds/agent_florida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s an unspoken hierarchy in Project Freelancer. They don’t talk about it; they just know it’s there. And to rise above it, Wash is going to have to submit to it, or else risk losing the one weapon that could help him to leave this mess behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chain of Command

_Do you know what the chain of command is? It’s the chain I go get and beat you with until you understand who’s in rutting command here.  
\- Jayne Cobb, Firefly_  
  
Great.  _This_  guy.  
  
They’d let him out of prison, promised him whatever was left over from the Project, and apparently Wash had done his job so well that the only thing left to him as a weapon was the Meta. He was still in lockdown, where Wash himself been not two days before, huge hands wrapped around iron bars, fluorescent lights reflecting dimly from that fishbowl helmet. He knew acutely what it felt like to stand there, waiting and watching, depowered armor not letting his strength through.  
  
“Move it,” the guard said, smacking away the Meta’s hands from the rails as he opened the door to his cell. “Outta here. Agent Washington needs you for a – what did you say this was for?”  
  
“Secret mission.” Those two words were able to get him pretty much whatever he wanted from lower-ranking peons. Sometimes, it was good to be high on the chain of command.  
  
The Meta stepped out of his cage, sounding for all the world like an enraged pit bull when he growled at Wash. He was used to it by now; having that hulking brute next to him for all those months in solitary was enough for him to pick up on the pattern of snarls and hisses. It wasn’t always easy to determine what he meant, but Wash was usually able to figure it out eventually. There were only so many basic human needs, after all. “You,” he said, pointing to the retreating guard. “Where’s this soldier’s equipment?”  
  
The guard looked terrified. “Sir, I – I don’t – I’m not authorized –“  
  
“I’m authorizing you. Now, where’s his weapons?”  
  
The guard scampered down the hallway. Next to him, the Meta was practically purring in appreciation, and he hissed in delight when the guard came back with his pistol and Brute Shot. “Now come on. We’re leaving,” he announced.  
  
He went to walk down the hallway, but the Meta didn’t follow, a particularly nasty snarl coming from his helmet. It was enough to make Wash turn back around and threaten his new partner with his rifle; hopefully this time he would get the message. “You’re taking your orders from me now. Move.”  
  
The Meta followed him this time, though his snarls still sounded disgruntled. And not for the last time, Wash had to wonder just what he had gotten himself into.  
  
\--  
  
“Here.” He was pointing at a holographic topographical map of FPS Outpost 17, a finger running along the blue-lit beach. “You’ll approach from right here.”  
  
More snarling met his request. “Just chase them around. It’s not that difficult.”  
  
Was he misinterpreting those snarls? They continued unabated, and they sounded distinctively disdainful. “No. You’re scouting. I’m interrogating. I thought we decided this.”  
  
This time, his response was a hiss so low and grating that it created a feedback loop in his helmet. Wash was losing his patience; he ripped it off his head, holding it under his arm as he stepped closer to the Meta. “Damn it, you’re taking orders from me,” he repeated for the twentieth time in two days.  
  
In retrospect, he should have known that taking off his helmet was a bad idea, but even if he had kept it on, the sudden pressure of the Meta’s hand around his throat would have been enough to crush his windpipe. He was dangling a foot from the floor, throat half-closed, cut off from speaking by the grip not allowing his larynx to move – yet the Meta wasn’t choking him. That helmet was slightly cocked, staring at him as if he were some kind of toy, a plaything given to him by Command that he could chew on at will.  
  
He tried to kick at the Meta, force him to put his legs back down on the ground, but even though he knew his foot was making contact with his armor, he didn’t seem affected. His next attempt was to see if he could pry the fingers from his neck, but instead the Meta threw him into a wall, making him see stars. He slid down slowly, trying to catch back the breath that had been knocked out of him, looking up at his new partner to try to determine his next move. The Meta was staring back at him the same way, almost as if recalculating the tactical matrix of this confrontation on the fly.  
  
Wash had known, going into this, that it wouldn’t be easy getting the Meta to follow his orders. There was an unspoken hierarchy among the Freelancers. It had begun as mere posturing, and then, as the experiments had been accelerated, it became a very real measure of worth. While she was alive, Carolina had been top of the food chain, the two AI in her head making her more verifiably insane than the rest of them; her death had only confirmed her place. Tex was up there too, with her AI that was obsessed with ruling the world, and Wyoming as well, close to being completely deranged once Gamma spontaneously ejected.  
  
Once Epsilon had been implanted in Wash, though, the rules changed. Nobody before or after him had been certified Article 12, and it had accelerated him to taking Carolina’s place. All the Freelancers had mocked him to his face and been terrified of him behind his back. As long as they remained terrified, Wash was fine with his position. It let him preserve a certain level of unpredictability, demand a certain amount of respect.  
  
The Meta, though, was an entirely different story. He had been drunk on his own power for so long, rampaging and killing other Freelancers, stealing their AI, and generally reacting against the very principles of Project Freelancer. It was the desperation of a rebellious child, but the message to Wash was clear: Maine was intent on stealing his place in the hierarchy.  
  
He had succeeded, been driven so mad by the extra presences in his mind that he could no longer speak English. And now he was sending another message to Wash with his fists and his snarls:  _I lead the hierarchy. I owe you no respect._  And somehow, Wash was going to have to find a way around that, or risk losing the Meta’s allegiance.  
  
He stared at the brute. The Meta stared back. He hated that helmet, hated not knowing what was underneath, whether it was still human, still the Agent Maine he vaguely remembered, or something less. He pushed himself off from the floor, his body already beginning to ache from the impact of being thrown, finding himself on slightly shaky legs. “What do I have to do to get your respect?”  
  
He had meant it sarcastically, but that wasn’t how the Meta seemed to be interpreting it. Instead, the thing was on him again, picking him up by the scruff of the neck and forcing him into the wall face-first, crushing him against it with his weight and his armor, squeezing the breath out of him. It was some kind of submission game, and Wash tried to keep still, knowing that if he moved, the Meta could more than likely kill him and think nothing of it.  
  
It was hard not to move, though, when he could feel the distinct jab of the muzzle of the Meta’s pistol pushing up against the side of his ribs, right where bodysuit met armor. He tried to control his breathing, keep his pulse from racing. It was all a game, he reassured himself. This was how animals asserted their dominance over one another, and soon the Meta would stop assaulting him and start listening to his orders.  
  
The Meta didn’t seem to be treating it like a game, though, especially when the gun nudged up against the catch in his pelvic plating and it fell to the ground. Wash went into full panic mode, and he could almost feel the poison of the adrenalin entering his system, but he couldn’t do anything as long as the Meta’s hand was still around the back of his throat. He didn’t want to die. Not now. Not like this. And so he tried to stay still, tried not to move, hoped that the Meta wouldn’t notice the sudden tension in his spine.  
  
It wasn’t until the body of the Meta’s pistol came up to rest in the cleft between Wash’s asscheeks that he really understood what was happening here. The Meta was putting him in his place, reminding him of the hierarchy, warning him not to transgress it. When his bodysuit came down and the cold metal of the pistol was against his skin, he couldn’t help his protective reaction, but it didn’t seem like he had any choice in the matter any more. This was an animal instinct, after all, and he should have known that this was going to happen.  
  
He only realized it was coming a fraction of a second before it actually happened, and then the muzzle of the pistol (fully loaded, safety off, in the Meta’s volatile hands, he reminded himself) was nudging insistently up against his sphincter, pushing past it roughly and stretching him to the point of sharp, intense pain. Wash was good at suppressing his reactions to most things, but this, this was a violation of even the most basic of common-sense safety protocols, and it  _hurt_ , it  _hurt_  as the pistol pushed its way further inside him. He knew these were the rules, that this was what he deserved for trying to force the Meta’s allegiance, but this was just –  _more wrong than anything you’ve done?_  
  
If he had been hoping that being sodomized by the Meta’s pistol was going to be the furthest extent of this sexual assault, he was proved wrong when the Meta pushed down his bodysuit further, exposing his traitorously hard cock to the cool air in the room. A gloved hand closed around it, and Wash closed his eyes, trying to forget everything happening to him as it happened. The glove chafed against his sensitive skin, and the gun was pushing inside him at awkward angles, and all the pain only served to make this more real, more desperate, and he bit his lip against the sound he was about to let go.  
  
He didn’t want this to feel good. He didn’t want to admit that he just might have asked for this. When the muzzle of the gun pressed against that spot inside him, his knees buckled, forcing it to hit that spot _again_ , and he tried to move his hips so he could have it both ways. But no matter what he did, the Meta was still in control, and it was infuriating, the slow chafe against his cock, the way the gun was slowly warming inside him until the heat felt unbearable.  
  
He couldn’t make a noise, or he would risk losing the Meta’s respect; this was a test, after all, and one he needed to pass badly. What angered him the most was that he couldn’t control the sensations, what was happening to him when. That all-too-familiar ache was coiling inside him, the Meta winding him tighter and tighter with each nudge of the pistol, each stroke against his cock, and then he was there, muffling the noise he wanted so badly to let out, trying hard not to let his twitching body betray how truly vulnerable he was.  
  
The Meta’s hand came off his cock, now sticky with his cum, and the way the pistol eased out of him was as painful as its entry. Wash didn’t have the nerve to redo his armor until he heard the Meta’s footsteps retreating to the other side of the room, and his shaking fingers fumbled at both bodysuit and plating. His mind was racing, but when he turned around and saw his new partner just staring at him quizzically from over the map, he understood. “Are you going to listen to me now?” he asked quietly, voice low.  
  
The Meta just nodded. They were both going to have to make some sacrifices here to make their arrangement work. He’d let Wash use him as an attack dog, but he wasn’t about to let Wash forget who was really the bitch here.


End file.
